


Shots Fired

by michael_b



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Trans Dr. Flug (Villainous)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28810158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michael_b/pseuds/michael_b
Summary: Demencia works as a mercenary for Hatsville's underworld. Kenning Flugslys is a renowned med college student doing his PhD thesis on discovering a cure for the Numbra disease. Two parallel worlds — Until their paths cross.
Relationships: Demencia/Dr. Flug (Villainous)
Kudos: 4





	Shots Fired

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a dream I had. Also crossposted to my Villainous Amino, http://aminoapps.com/p/ajbqwx.

Demencia's profession as a criminal-for-hire doesn't lend itself to judgement. A job is a job, so long as the money is right. 

The request she's received today, though... It's pushing even her own ramshackle limits.

An assassination. And an expensive one at that. A reward of nine digits for a day's work. 

Whose life could be worth so much? 

It makes her curious. And when something makes her curious, it makes her unstoppable.

She's going to meet this person, whatever it takes. And if what it takes is making death her currency, so be it. 

She accepts the offer; it brings her inside Kenning Flugslys' apartment. 

Kenning Flugslys: prodigy pre-med graduate, finishing up his PhD at Hatsville College. Brilliant scientist and humanist doing his thesis on inventing a cure for the Numbra disease, a genetic disorder more commonly known as The Sun Allergy. Plane crash survivor, credits his life and his decision to pursue a medical degree to the hospital staff that saved his life.

What's so precious about him, anyway? 

His apartment is a small, crummy space, claustrophobic even if wasn't in a state of utter disarray. It'd sooner pass for a landfill than a home, really — which is why it takes Demencia a good few minutes to realize Flugslys is nowhere to be found in it. 

His absence is... Strange, considering the late of the hour. And, considering the steaming cup still on the lit kitchen's aisle, it's officially upgraded to suspicious. 

There's two doors to her left. By process of elimination, if she's standing in the main area with a kitchenette and a little lounge corner, one door's got to lead to the bedroom and the other to the toilet. If Flugslys knows what's good for him, he'll have picked either room and be in it, or so help her, if he makes her hunt him down—

The muffled garble of flushing water unceremoniously settles her internal debate. She's not complaining. Fun can wait until she's not on the clock.

She follows the sound, inching closer to Flugslys. He's blissfully unaware that his death is a flimsy plywood plank away. Demencia is all too tempted to break the news to him by ways of breaking down that door.

Her hatchet sways against her leg where she's hung it on her belt. It'd be so easy — a well-aimed blow and the doc'll have to diagnose his own heart attack. 

Damn shame the boss wants it done quickly and quietly — playing it safe makes for the dullest games. For the bank she's making out of it though, Demencia would even kill him with a bingo card. 

Flugslys walks out, and things finally get a little interesting. 

He doesn't see her right away, but she surely does see him. 

He's tall, taller than he appeared in the photos. He'd tower over her, if he wasn't hunching, carrying himself as though he's afraid of his own shadow. Demencia knows he has blue eyes from his file, but right now they're hidden behind a flurry of overgrown ginger curls. 

She wrinkles her nose. How can he not notice his hair is obscuring his vision? Doesn't it bother him? Or does he simply not care? Maybe he's keeping it long so he doesn't have to look at the trashed state of his apartment. 

Well, she's about to show him exactly why he should be more aware of his surroundings. 

Demencia clears her throat, and Kenning Flugslys screams. He stumbles backwards, hits the wall hard. His hair bounces. 

"Hey there, doc," Demencia purrs. With the way his fringe has shifted, she gets a good view of the left half of his face. 

That eye is hazy, a muddy gray with a darker splotch in the middle. A webbing of thick, sickly-yellow mucus covers it, and as Flugslys blinks rapidly, she realizes: it's blind.

He pushes a tuft behind his ear, his good eye zeroing in on her. And then, he does something unexpected: he smiles, in the special way that would be showing dimples, if his skin wasn't covered in blotches of scar tissue, knotted and hard. 

"Lords, you scared me half to death! For a moment I thought you were—" 

His smile shifts into a frown, his gaze calculating, analyzing. 

Demencia grins. "Yeah?" 

She's waiting for the fear, the cold dread of recognition: he's the pray and she's the predator. It doesn't take a genius to piece together what happens next.

It never comes. 

Instead, Flugslys coughs, scratches his cheek. "Well, I'm embarrassed," he mutters, and the weirdest part is that he looks like he means it. "I was going to say I had thought you were an axe murderer, but I am obviously mistaken."

"Are you now?" Demencia raises a brow. She can't decide if she's baffled or pissed at his nonchalance.

"Well, yes. Your weapon is very clearly a hatchet. It's not large enough to be an axe. I am going to have to insist on the murderer part, though. No offense."

Demencia searches for something to retort, but all she comes up with is a feeble, "I— None taken? You're not wrong."

Flugslys nods, expression blank. "I'm glad I used the bathroom already, then. Otherwise, this situation would've gotten very awkward. Well, since you're here, care for a cup of tea?" 

She gapes at him. "I just told you I'm going to kill you and that's your only question?"

Flugslys shrugs, already sauntering into the kitchen. "I assumed you will decline to answer any questions pertaining to who you're working for and why you're after me. Therefore, I'd rather not waste what may very well be my last breaths asking. I hardly think conversation about beverages is a sensitive topic, so..." He pauses, shooting her a playful smirk over his shoulder. "Tea? I was going to have a couple more cups to help me sleep, but it seems like you'll take care of the sleeping part. The kettle is still hot, it's no trouble."

Demencia regards him through narrowed eyes. Is he setting her up for a trap? Is that what this is? 

If he is, it's a damn clever trap. He's impossible to make head or tails of. And that... That piques her cursed curiosity. 

She's done for the moment he gets her interested in seeing this through.

"Fine," she says, taking a seat on the stool he has in lieu of a proper chair for the aisle he has in lieu of a proper table. "I'll bite. Sure, doc, I'll have some tea."

Flugslys hums in contempt. "It'd be my pleasure. Do you have a favorite color?" 

Demencia bristles up. "If that's your way of getting information out of me, it's a terrible one."

Flugslys whips around to face her, and Demencia's hand flies to her hatchet. She's not supposed to use it for the mission, but nobody said anything about using it for self-defense. 

Of course, that might be because she's also not supposed to be the one on the defensive.

Flugslys looks amused, if anything. "I meant for your mug. I collect them. I own every shade of the rainbow, and some off the rainbow, too. But if you would prefer it to be a surprise..." 

Demencia snarls. "Green. It's green, alright? Shut up."

Flugslys chuckles as he opens a cupboard. "I'm not going to try anything. Rest assured, I have no interest in fighting back." 

"Why?" 

She blurts it out before she fully understands she's done it. 

"Now who's the one with the personal questions?" Flugslys muses, still deeply focused on his current task: comparing a pair of nearly identical neon green mugs.

There's heat rising to her cheeks. Demencia mumbles, "Forget it. Not like I care."

Flugslys returns one cup to the cabinet  
He pours the tea into the other with artful dexterity: he's managed to make the flow soundless, so smooth it could be frozen. "I don't care about why you were sent to take my life, either. I'm going to die whether I know the reason or not. Aren't I allowed to wonder nevertheless?"

He sets her mug down, careful not to spill, and joins her at the counter. "Honey? Milk?" 

Demencia responds with a question of her own: "If I tell you why I'm here, will you tell me why you're so careless about your survival?"

He tilts his head. "Sure." 

"Fine," Demencia remarks, addressing the steam rising from her cup more than Flugslys. "My... Contractor was intrigued by that cure you're developing. Enough to send me to get you out of the way and obtain it. Enough to pay me a shit ton to do it."

Flugslys seems pleased by that. "So someone out there thinks my invention is worth a lot. I'll take that as a compliment."

Demencia feels irritation froth in her chest. She slams her hands on the aisle. 

"Are you seriously not angry? Your life and your hard work are about to be stolen just to make a rich bastard richer, and you don't even care? It's like you actually want to die!"

Flugslys flinches ever-so slightly. A flash of emotion crosses his features, gone too soon for her to identify. 

"I never said I want to die," he says, and if his tone was cool before, it's now frigid. "I don't. I'm not suicidal, if that's what you think. It's simply that — You've read up on me, correct?"

Demencia gives a wordless, curt nod. 

"In that case, you know I was involved in an airplane accident. I lost my eye and gained these," he gestured vaguely towards his scarred face, "but I survived. And that is a miracle only a fool with a rather poor understanding of statistics would expect to repeat itself. The individual circumstances might vary. However, dying is unavoidable, and I've made my peace with that. I refuse to allow my final memories to be of fear."

Demencia scoffs. "That's just stupid, Flugslys."

He gives a light laugh. "Maybe. But it's the truth." 

He sucks in a breath, like he's about to say something else, but then just reaches for his mug, a light blue matching his eyes. He draws a long sip of his tea and grimaces. "Well, this has gone dreadfully cold."

She's not letting him off the hook that easy. "How are you supposed to survive if you aren't afraid to die?" 

"Pardon me?" 

Demencia holds his stare, challenging him. "If you don't have a reason to fight for your life, what's left?" 

Flugslys does not hesitate. "Living it, I believe."

"No shit," she hisses. "I mean what the hell the point is! The— Meaning of life, or whatever! You're saying it's not about fighting to stay alive. What is it about, then?" 

His expression softens, and the sight leaves a bitter taste in Demencia's mouth. "If your sole motive to live is dreading the alternative more," he says, too gently, "you're leading the wrong life. And that's your new incentive: stay alive so you can find a life worth living for."

She scowls. "I don't need your doctor psychoanalysis bullshit, Flugslys. And I don't need your pity, either. You're pathetic if you're trying to save your skin with manipulation. Pathetic and a damned liar. Trickery counts as fighting too, you know, even if it's the most cowardly way to do it. Finish your drink so we can get this over with."

"I wasn't—" His expression twists into something pained, and this time, he doesn't bother concealing it. He presses his lips into a thin line. "...Very well. But, if I may ask one last—" 

"No," Demencia cuts him off. "No more questions. You've stalled the inevitable enough."

Flugslys' voice is trembling when he speaks up again. "I was not going to ask a question. I would like a favor, if you would be so inclined." 

Demencia curses through gnashed teeth. He might be playing the role convincingly, but she won't— Can't let him get under her skin. "Fine. Let's hear it."

He exhales, fidgeting with his shirt like it'll hide how hard his hands are shaking. "See that my dog is taken care of — please? He's a senior saint-bernard's, no shelter will take him in at his age and size. They'll..." He swallows hard, rubs at his eye with the back of his palm. "They'll just euthanize him and — He's been my best friend for years. He deserves better than to die alone and terrified. Do what you have to do with me, just please — Set him up to a good home, okay?"

Demencia wants to laugh at how pathetic he looks, begging for another's life when it's his she's threatening. And she would have, really, if he wasn't so— Distracting, with that open, vulnerable expression and his wide eyes. 

What ends up coming out is, "...'Kay. Where's your elusive dog, then? Shouldn't he have, I dunno, attacked me?"

Flugslys actually laughs at that. "5.0.5 wouldn't hurt a fly. Don't get me wrong — he's capable of it, he just doesn't want to. Prefers sleeping on my bed, which, by the way, he's not technically allowed on, but I let him think he's sneaking past me anyway. Wouldn't get up if his life depended on it. Or mine, for that matter."

Demencia's lost focus, consumed by the fondess in his voice, the softness with which he pronounces his dog's name, like it's something fragile, something priceless. 

She forgets she doesn't care, and asks, "Why?"

"Excuse me?"

She grunts, repeats it more forcefully. "Why 5.0.5?" 

Flugslys' entire face brightens. "I'm so glad you asked," he tells her, like she can't read it all over his features. "All right, look — you know how saint bernards were bred to be rescue dogs? That's why they're so big and burly. Or at least that's why most of them are big and burly. 5.0.5 has decided it's to fit more treats into his body. And farts." Flugslys cringes, "Lords, so many farts. The point is, he's not your typical saint bernard's. Quite the opposite, actually. A reverse saint bernard's, if you will. Do you see what I'm implying?"

"He's a failed clone experiment," Demencia deadpans. She sticks her tongue out. "We're not all geniuses, doc. Enlighten me."

He gives her a lopsided smile. "A rescue dog is also referred to as a SOS dog. And if my dog is the reverse of that... SOS flipped around becomes—"

"5.0.5." Demencia concludes his reasoning for him. "Huh. That's an awful lot of thought put into a dog's name."

Flugslys stifles a laugh into his mug as he takes a sip of his tea. "He doesn't even listen to it. All that effort for nothing." He pauses, hesitantly adds, "Well, I did get to impress a cute girl."

Demencia's heart skips a beat, unbidden. And if she wasn't sure before, she's got no doubt now that this has gotten out of hand. She's not flattered, she's just toying with her victim for her own entertainment. 

"Now Flugslys, I knew fear can fuck with people's head, but—" 

"You can call me Kenning."

She looks at him, forces her jaw to stay set. "What?" 

"I—" He falters, but doesn't back out. "If we're close enough that beheading me with that thing is appropriate, I think first-name basis does not cross the line." 

Demencia takes a long time to reply. When she does, it's in a hushed murmur: "Don't be dumb, Kenning. I'm not using the axe, it'd make a mess. Messes are for rookies practically begging to get arrested."

She's not looking at him. She doesn't have to. She hears the smirk in his voice when he inquires, "Well, what are you using? Do I get to pick? Or is that—" she begrudgingly turns towards him just as he forms air-quotes with his fingers, "—classified, too? You know, these ice-breaker exercises are usually between two people. I've been the only one doing the sharing, we can't build a bond like this."

He regards her with a playful edge. It shouldn't work. Demencia hates that it works. 

Kenning absolutely cannot know it worked. So, Demencia wears her best sarcastic smirk, and says, "Okay. I humored your playdate, and your silly little 'first-name basis,' but you're taking it too far, Flugslys. We're not friends. You're smart enough to tell the difference between affection and pity, aren't you?" 

Kenn— Flugslys releases a bitter chuckle. "...I thought I was, but it would appear I'm mistaken. My apologies — Let's just get to the business. I'd hate to impose on your company more than I already have."

Demencia grips her mug, downs it in one go. It's bland without any sweetener, but it washes down the guilt that's risen to her throat like bile. She thrums her nails on the porcelain, feigns indifference. "What, hurt your pride?"

"No, not my pride." He sighs. "I miscalculated, and it backfired. As a scientist, I ought to admit that mistake was of my own fault."

She's got him exactly where she wants him. So why does it feel so wrong? 

"Whatever," she snaps. "I forgot you nerds are piss-poor at reading social cues. It's unprofessional to not have taken that into account, so tell you what, let's compromise. You get one question, and then you get murdered. Deal?"

Kenning shrugs, a touch of vivacity flowing back into his motions. "I'm not sure if it's that or my ADHD, but I appreciate the offer. Deal." 

"By all means then, ask away, doc." 

He rests his cheek on his hand, regards her with a studying glint in his eye. "May I ask for your name?"

Demencia falters under the intensity of his attention. She laughs awkwardly. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you." 

Kenning does not stop looking at her in that analyzing manner of his, like Demencia's an equation he can't solve. It makes something unsettling stir in her stomach. "Not your real name necessarily, just... Something to remember you by? I'm aware you cannot leave tracks behind, but I promise you, I'll take this one with me to the grave."

He winks at her, and her resolve breaks. It's a case of correlation, not causation. Just a coincidence. 

"My code name is Lizard. That satisfy your curiosity?"

"Quite the opposite." He chuckles. "I'm a scientist, may I remind you. Is it because of your eyes?"

Demencia's too taken aback to remind him he only had one question. "My... What? No. It's 'cause I climb walls like nobody's business. What's wrong with my eyes?" 

Kenning jolts, emitts a squeak. "Nothing! Absolutely nothing. I just assumed, because of your heterochromia— Which is beautiful, I'm not insinuating it's an insult! My apologies, I—"

"Kenning." She interrupts him, trying not to think about his unintentional compliment. She has no reason to think about it, and so she doesn't. "What the hell are you talking about? My eyes are the same color."

Kenning blinks a few times. He squints, purses his mouth, and finally says, "I'm afraid one remains yellow while the other is brown. Are you colorblind by any chance? That would explain—"

She curses. "It's not a medical condition. I lost my fucking contact! Damn it, I'm not gonna find cheap ones to replace it 'till next halloween!" 

Kenning mutters something that's awfully reminiscent of, "Well, for what it's worth, I think your natural brown is just as pretty," and Demencia nearly chokes.

This compliment was most definitely not unintentional. 

She pulls her hood over her face — not to hide anything, like, say, a blush, but to demonstrate the lizard print atop it. "They're supposed to match the eyes of this little guy. It's my favorite shirt, so I figured I'd make a theme out of it. Kinda like a uniform, y'know? 'S why I dyed my hair red and green, too. Makes me look like I'm committed to my act."

Kenning snorts. "Gets you all the murder deals, hm?"

Demencia wishes she had more tea, to drown out the compulsion to trust him, to confess that... "You're my first elimination assignment, actually."

Too late.

His brows vanish into his stray locks. "I'm really your first?" He whistles. "Lucky me, then." 

Demencia resolutely does not wonder if the innuendo was on purpose. She does not wonder if she would like it to be, either. 

Kenning answers her unspoken question, anyway. "Lords, that did not come out the way I meant it. I haven't even had my first kiss yet, let aside..."

He stops, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why did I tell you that? Maybe this would be a good time to kill me. Hell, I'll pay you myself to take me out of my misery." 

He's joking, but it makes Demencia think. She certainly could kill him now. She's got the skill for it, she's got the opportunity, and she's certainly got the motive.

All she's missing is the want to. 

She's failing. Her first big gig, and she's failing, because she's getting attached to Kenning Flugslys, the doctor with a savior complex. As if he'd ever spare her a second glance if she weren't forcing him at quite literal gunpoint. He thinks he's a hero, and she knows she's a villain. They'd never work.

"So, were you lying in those interviews about wanting to save lives or whatever your oath is about, or is your own life an exception?" 

What she's after is proof. Proof that, despite their similarities, they're opposites where it matters most: their moral codes.

But Kenning only presents her with a truly sinister smile. 

"The oath? Yes, I swore to keep people from harm and injustice. Swore to whom, though? I'm a man of science. I don't believe in god. I'll use my skills to save lives as long as it pays better than taking them. Besides, with my reputation... Well. A lot can seem like an accident, if I so wish."

Kenning Flugslys is not a doctor with a savior complex. He's a monster with an carefully-crafted alibi no one'll dare refute. 

Demencia suppresses a thrilled shudder. She needs something, anything to grasp onto, an excuse to help her live with the memory of killing the only person who's ever made her feel alive.

"Bullshit. What about the drug, then? The Numbra kills more people in a year than you and I could hope to kill in our entire careers combined. Why would you plan to give its cure away free of charge and slave away at a hospital all your life, when you could sell it and get rich in a heartbeat?"

He shoots back, "Why do you think? You and I are two sides of the same coin. Why would you be doing it, in my position?"

Demencia mulls it over. "Entertainment, I guess. You seem like the type of mad genius to think inventing a drug is fun. That, and getting paid to slice bodies open." 

"Excellent," Kenning praises. She's entirely unfazed by the way the corners of his lips quirk as he speaks. "I'll admit it is a matter of pride, as well. I cannot profit off a drug I don't have the means to mass-produce, and if I sold the rights to a corporation, they'd get all the credit. Now, why in the world would I let that happen?"

Demencia makes a little breathless sound of surprise and awe both. "You're dangerously cunning, Kenning Flugslys."

He laughs. "Now you're just blandishing me. Still, I ought to admit, if I have to die, I'm glad it's by your hand."

Demencia's breath hitches at her throat. She conceals it with a cough, and says, a little faster than she intended, "It won't be with my hands, either. That's two wrong guesses. One more and you're out."

"It's not fair to make the penalty and the prize the same thing. Ruins the surprise, you know," Kenning teases. He leans towards her, and for a wonderful, terrifying second, Demencia thinks he might kiss her. 

But Kenning simply says, in a small voice, "In all seriousness, I really do not want you to get in trouble for doing your job. Walk me through this: how do we make it look like an accident?"

"We... Uh..." Demencia peers around the apartment, because looking at Kenning makes something constrict painfully in her chest. "How about that syringe over there? We could stage an overdose."

Whether she's ready or not. 

Kenning trails her gaze, scratches the stubble on his chin. "No," he concludes, "that won't do. That's for injecting my testosterone. I purchase it in pre-measured rations and I don't keep any other drugs around here, legislated or otherwise. I'm sorry."

She is going to kill him, and he's apologizing for the inconvenience. Demencia cannot seem to decipher this man, and she cannot seem to stop wishing she'd have a chance to.

She can't, though. There's not enough time.

"You could inject me with plain air, and it would mimic the symptoms of cardiac arrest, but they might be able to deduct there was foul play involved if they notice the puncture wound. I wish I could suggest anything better."

"It's fine," she says. It is not fine. "I—"

She doesn't finish that thought. Instead, she thinks of something else: an idea. Her worst, best, most stupid, most clever idea. 

"...I have brought my own poison. Untraceable in blood samples, kills in seconds. It's supposed to be a painful death, but it's quick. I don't like using it, but if you're okay with waiting it out..."

Kenning shrugs, gestures to his face. "Can't hurt worse than this. Let's do it."

She stays silent as she retrieves the syringe from the coffee table. She raises it to eye-level, examines the silver tip. 

"Okay," she says. "Let's do it."

The next steps are fairly straightforward: unzip her hoodie pocket, get the tiny bottle out. Puncture the top, draw the thick, clear fluid. Push out any bubbles, and then... 

Inject Kenning Flugslys and dissappear. 

But before she does... "Wait." She impels her eyes to meet his. "Any last requests?"

Kenning bites his lip. "... It's hardly appropriate. I don't like the idea of a death wish that you're forced to carry out. It doesn't matter, I'll forget about it soon enough. Just stick it in." He sucks in a trembling breath. "Okay, perhaps I did mean for this one to sound like that."

"Flugslys." She rolls her eyes. "Quit deflecting and spit it out. You can't force me to do anything. I'm the one with the weapons here. But if it'll convince you there's no way for you to take advantage of me here, I can pretend to blackmail you."

Kenning seems unsure still, and maybe even somewhat flustered, but he gives a hesitant nod. "I think it would make me feel better, actually. Is that too embarrassing to say?" 

"I asked, didn't I?" Demencia says. "Well, if you insist... Get up, doctor. It's showtime."

He obeys immediately, and as soon as he's standing, she has him pinned to the wall with a swift maneuver, her hatchet pressed into his throat. "Where do you keep your notes on the cure, doc? I'm warning you, you do not want to lie to me." 

Kenning makes an indeterminate noise, that could be a whimper or it could be a moan, but he manages to tell her, "A... A flash drive. It's plugged to my computer. Everything is in there."

Demencia smirks, partly still playing her part and partly because in a different situation, she'd be delighted to have him under her control like this, staring at her, eyes blown wide and his mouth slightly parted. 

She slides her hatchet back into its place at her thigh, and says, "There. Now, what do you want?"

Kenning is hearing her, but he's not listening. His good eye is just as glossy as his blind one, pupil dilated enough to hide the blue of his iris. 

And then, in a whisper raspy and thick, he asks, "Kiss me?" 

Her heart stops. "Say that again?"

Kenning seems to sober up at that. He shakes his head, features twisting into something guilty and horrified, and takes his bottom lip between his teeth. Demencia cannot stop looking at those damn lips. 

"Forgive me," he says, an urgency to his tone. "I just thought— I've never kissed anyone and you're just so incredibly pretty, I thought– If you wanted it too— I thought it wouldn't be such a bad way to die. I apologize, I—"

Demencia doesn't let him complete that sentence. She kisses him. 

She pushes him against the wall and Kenning does not resist her. He elicits a low, keening noise when her hand reaches up to tangle in his hair, crimson red sliding between her fingers like dancing flames. His own hands have grabbed the pockets of her hoodie, pulling her flush against him.

Demencia's free hand pushes the injection right into the side of his neck. 

She feels his muffled gasp against her lips, his frantic heartbeat against her palm. Then, she loses both as Kenning collapses into the ground. 

"I'm sorry," she tells him, although she knows he can't hear. "I hope you can forgive me."

She drags his body to the couch, ignoring the bedroom with his dog. 

Kenning is almost peaceful lying there, his muscles relaxed, expression serene. He could almost be smiling. Or maybe that's how Demencia wants to remember him. 

Well, her job is mostly done. Only one last thing left to take care of: her boss.

***

For some reason, when Kenning jolts awake, his first thought is something incomprehensible about lizards. That, and the throbbing pain at the junction where shoulder meets neck.

His second thought is something only marginally more comprehensible but significantly less polite about the ringing in his ears.

"Five, for the last time, whining won't make me feed you faster..." 

5.0.5 barks distantly from his bedroom, and the ringing continues undeterred. 

Wait, that's his ringtone!

Kenning doesn't bother opening his eyes. One doesn't work and the other is on strike until it gets more sleep. He pats the tiles, feeling for the buzzing, and releases a triumphant yawn when his fingers wrap around his ancient flip-phone.

He brings it to his ear and generates a guttural, muddled noise that could pass for "Hello?" with a generous dose of imagination. 

"Dude! Tell me you've seen the news!" 

The shrill shrieking on the other end of the speaker is a perfect impression of a malevolent spirit —with the lung capacity of an opera singer— during its exorcism.

It can only belong to one person: his old roommate, who he's nicknamed Phantom for a reason. The vacuuming at the crack of dawn still haunts him.

"Hey, Phantom, good to hear from you," he lies through his teeth. "Loud as ever, I see. And still in just as ungodly hours. This had better be important, or else you can call me again when I'm caffeinated and qualified to deal with you."

He rests his free hand over his eyes, shielding them from the piercing sun rays. His head is pounding. 

"Turn on the news. Right now." Phantom sounds like he's a ticking bomb of pure, undistilled excitement, which is not far off from how he usually sounds, except this time it's even more. 

Despite his better judgment, Kenning is intrigued. 

"Okay? Give me a second." 

In the short while Kenning takes to find the remote and switch the television on, Phantom has chanted "Are you watching? Are you watching? Are you watching?" no less than twenty-eight times. He kept count.

"I am. And I cannot make out a word of it, because you won't shut up!" 

Phantom does the impossible: he actually shuts up. It's so unlike him, that Kenning is convinced: he raises the volume, and listens. 

"...New developments in the BlackHat case indicate he was murdered for reasons unknown. The CEO of the pharmaceutical company BLACK DEATH was shot in his office at the early hours of this morning. The perpetuator left a yellow contact at the scene, and the authorities encourage anyone with relevant information to come forward... "

Kenning clutches his head, suddenly overcome with the distinct sense that he's heard this before. 

Yellow contact? Why's that so eerily familiar...?

It hits him all at once.

"No fucking way in hell..." 

Phantom cackles. "Told you it was worth it. A vigilante in this day and age? In our city?! Man, I haven't been this pumped since at least yesterday!" 

Kenning's thoughts are spiraling. He's dizzy, and he can't decide if it's a good dizzy or not. "Phantom — Listen, thanks for showing me, but I'm— I'm feeling kind of ill." It's not technically a lie. "Text me later. I've got to go."

"Awww dude," Phantom whines, "You never even read your messages!" 

Kenning does, he just ignores his. 

"Fiiiine, I'll leave you be. For now," Phantom concludes with a high-pitched din that Kenning suspects is the evil laughter he's been practicing for as long as he's known him. It's kind of amazing that he has not improved whatsoever.

Kenning ends the call while Phantom is preoccupied. He sinks against the cushions, fully surrendering to his panic.

What he wants to be panicked over is his indirect and unwitting involvement in the assassination of one of the most influential men in the city, if not the entire country. But his thoughts are raveled elsewhere, in dyed hair and bright red lips.

He's panicking about that, too. 

He'd taken multiple leaps of faith last night, expecting each of them to be his last before he crashed. He'd kissed her like there was no tomorrow, because he thought there would be no tomorrow.

Yet somehow, it is tomorrow, and instead of regrets, all he has is desire. Desire to find her, to kiss her again, and maybe, this time, learn her real name too.

Was the contact she left behind a message to him? A goodbye? 

He doesn't want it to be a goodbye, but at least it would mean it was deliberate. She wouldn't accidentally lose a contact twice, right?

Kenning misses her. She might not have killed him, but her absence has left him with a bleeding wound he's trying to close with fleeting memories and fever dreams.

That's when he sees it. 

The flash drive, neatly placed on the coffee table, like it had always been there. But it hadn't been. Kenning had left it plugged in his computer, he remembers that. 

He remembers telling her that, too.

He jams it into the port of his laptop, and he searches with the desperation of a parched man digging in a mirage.

Only that Kenning finds something: a file. Date of creation, less than four hours ago.

It's a simple text document, but it is so much more. It says:

_Sorry about the sedative. I'll make it up to you. Check your bank account. XOXO, Demencia. ;)_

Demencia. Her name is Demencia. Kenning's new favorite word is Demencia.

She's asked him to check his balance, and Kenning doesn't think twice before obliging. There's nothing he would deny her, his burning curiosity aside.

It's a deposit from an anonymous sender. A deposit that... 

Kenning grins, so big it irritates the scars across his cheeks. They itch. He doesn't mind. 

Unbelievable. She's unbelievable.

The digits form a phone number.


End file.
